


Rust And Ruin

by RustAndRuinByTheMists



Category: Mistborn - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: Allomancy, Armor, F/M, Futuristic, Mistborn, Original Character - Freeform, Spinoff, allomancers, pewterarm, tineye
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-31 18:26:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6481876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RustAndRuinByTheMists/pseuds/RustAndRuinByTheMists
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Luthadel has changed much, with pace-ships in place of trains and high-tech armor in place of dresses and vests. And even more than that, allomancers are vanishing. A Tineye Mercenary, an unsnapped possibly-Pewterarm, and a Coinshot who knows more than he lets on must confront the government, old "friends", and the bloody secrets of hemalurgy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

The name of the ship was a bit of a joke. The Lord Ruler. The name was emblazoned on the side. Once upon a time, people would have been shocked. The atrocities of the Lord Ruler had been long since forgotten, however. It was no more scandalous to name a cargo craft after him than to name it after a monster in a story told to children.  
Frick tapped the hull absentmindedly as he scanned the crowd of workers unloading the craft. He didn't like unloading days. Although it could be argued that he didn't like any day. Frick was a man of the night, as most allomancers were. Fewer people to see, scoff, sneer or... dammit. He'd run out of s-words.  
One of the workers, a young girl, was attempting to lift a case of what Frick assumed to be important documents. As though the weight weren't too much for her already, the case was a bulky shape. Her fingers started to slip.  
Frick sighed. He hated when they did that. It didn't matter if the case contained important documents or used candy wrappers. A worker can't drop the cargo. His fingers reached for his handgun.  
The girl's feet pressed more firmly into the ground on either side of her. Her fingers caught the edges of the box, her muscles taught but not straining as they were before. She moved on with perfect balance.  
Frick dropped his hand.  
Well rust, he thought. A Thug. How'd she get into this dock of 'em all?  
He kept a closer eye on her as she walked on.  
Frick liked to do that. Watching the unloading as boring as hell. He'd pick out a worker and watch them. Try to figure out what they were like. It'd gotten more difficult since anyone working an interplanetary dock had to wear full suits and helmets, but that just made it all the more entertaining. Or distracting, at least.  
Early twenties, he thought. Redhead. The thugette looks a bit more bouncy than the others. New to the workforce, for certain. Pewterarms were more fun to watch. Frick was a little jealous of the smooth gait, the perfect balance. Even when he did find one, it was rare he found one like her. Not many were willing to use their powers, however subtly, in the day.  
Not unless you had the authority and firearms Frick possessed, of course. Few people cared to confront him about his tin burning.  
Frick watched the girl he'd begun to mentally refer to as Thugette a bit longer, fingers still tapping lazily against the Lord Ruler's hull.  
CRACK!  
Frick sighed. This accident hadn't been avoided. He pulled out his handgun and stepped down the industrial stairwell of the ship towards the man standing over a cracked-open case. The contents, a rather remarkable amount of marbles, were rolling out in a circle all around the frozen worker.  
"We told you to be careful," Frick said. He really did hate this part of his job.  
"I- it slipped an-"  
"Wait! Wait wait wait!" A voice called. Frick rolled his head to the side to see who it was.  
Thugette was running up, her feet slipping over the marbles in spite of her Pewter. She stumbled towards Frick and the unfortunate worker.  
"...I'm waiting," Frick said.  
"Don't shoot! Uh, please. Sir. Mr...? Never mind. Uh, this is my friend." She put a hand on the man's shoulder as she regained her footing.  
That was a lie. Frick could see that. Friends chatted with friends on their way to and from loading. Or even during, if the work wasn't too care-intensive. Thugette and Clumsy hadn't so much as glanced at one another till now.  
"I'm still waiting."  
Thugette pulled off her helmet. The name Thugette wasn't exactly appropriate. The girl didn't look like a thug in the least. If she weren't so bouncy she could possibly pull off the slightly-girlish mercenary look, but Frick thought she looked more like she belonged behind the counter of a flower shop or working on a ledger than hauling cargo. She had a slightly bony face, but her youth kept her from looking severe. She had a small smile Frick guessed was perpetual. She flicked a strand of red hair out of her face.  
"I just meant that I know him. It's his last day of work and it'd be a shame to end on a bad note. He's kind of old... he shouldn't have had cargo that heavy," She explained. Frick noted that Clumsy stiffened at the words. Was he afraid Thugette's lie would come back to bite him? Or was he uncertain how she knew the truth?  
Frick straightened his head. It was too late in the day for this. For one thing, he was tired. For another, the sun kept bouncing off their helmets into his visor. I should get the sun-block-thing replaced, he thought irritably.  
"Is what she says true?" He asked Clumsy. Clumsy nodded, head turned slightly towards Thugette.  
"Of course it is," She said.  
"Clean it up then," He said to Clumsy. Then he pointed the gun at Thugette. "Come with me." Her face was paled. Frick grinned a little. He loved when people didn't realize the safety was on. So much more fun.  
He tramped back up the steel stairwell, boots of his armor clanging loudly. She followed, her lighter step very obviously softer compared to his. Self-preservation was obviously not her strong suite.  
Frick stepped onto the deck of the cargo craft, turning to look at Thugette. Obviously, that name wouldn't do.  
"Name?"  
"Carsyn, sir," She said nervously. "I- uh, sorry about... interfering. I just didn't want to see... him get shot."  
"...and what is "him"'s name?" Frick raised his eyebrows. Not that she could see it, but hey. It was the thought that counted.  
She fell silent, lips pursed slightly. "It... uh, escaped me, sir."  
"Or you didn't know," Frick offered.  
"Of course I know! He's my friend," She said quickly. "How else would I know it's his last day and all?"  
"Maybe you saw him checking in. You were right behind him in line," Frick said. "And honestly, the way the man moves I'm surprised he's been allowed to work this long. Anyone could tell he's old." Tineye or not.  
Carsyn looked sheepishly at a spot on Frick's shoulder. "I'm sorry, sir. I hate when people get hurt."  
"I guess that's why you work with Cargo instead of a higher-paying Pewterarm job?" Carsyn didn't have to be the only one who could figure stuff out about people she didn't know, Frick decided.  
Her brown eyes flew wide. "How did you know?"  
Frick just looked at her.  
"...oh," She said after a moment. "Just... obvious, I guess?"  
Frick sighed. While he wasn't against using his tin whenever he felt like it, he didn't exactly advertise to anyone he met. But he always did have a soft spot for young women.  
"Just a little. Meaning for me, a lot."  
Her eyes widened again, this time with understanding. Rust, didn't this girl hide anything? Or hide it successfully, at least.  
"You're a ti-"  
"Yeah, yeah. Listen. Just... be careful." Frick awkwardly patted her shoulder. "Not really safe for us, know what I mean? Keep a lid on it."  
Carsyn nodded, happy to be let off the hook for interfering with Clumsy's accident. Frick watched her jog back down the staircase, footsteps a little louder.  
Rust, he thought. I hate unloading days.  
Unfortunately, he'd had to suffer through a few dozen more. Frick had always planned for an early retirement, and at age thirty-two he was ready for just that. He grinned. Being a Government Trade mercenary had it's perks.  
When he was finally able to walk away from the Lord Ruler, he was still grinning under his helmet.  
Nice of them to let me keep the suit, he thought. I can't wait to never put it on again.  
He strolled down the streets. Frick couldn't remember the last time he had 'strolled'. Partly because he didn't like to be bothered. If you don't want to be bothered, walk fast and look worried. People will assume you're on important business. And no one wants to mess with a frazzled person with important business, he thought. Although Frick had found that holding a gun up to anyone who questioned him proved to work as well. Unfortunately, he no longer had the authority to back up the gun.  
Frick went through the nicer streets of Luthadel towards a shabbier part of town. He was far from poor, but he planned on not dying for the next forty years or so. No need to be frivolous only half-way through. As Frick went further through the backstreets towards his apartment, he got more scowls and darker looking figures. At least working in Trade did one thing; you were only around the best.  
Rust, you'd think I'd stolen their last clip, Frick thought, passing a family giving him dark looks. Of course, with a government suit paid for by tax-payer clips, he might as well have. He gave his friendliest hello as he turned onto Flareling Way.  
Keys. He didn't have keys. How the hell was he supposed to have keys when he wasn't in his apartment but a couple times a year? Frick fished in one of his armor compartments for a lock-picking set. After a few moments, he swung the door open into his apartment.

It was dusty as hell. He ran a gloved finger along the top edge of the empty coatrack. The buildup was actually sort of impressive. Frick flicked it off before venturing further into his apartment.  
Trash. Junk. Dust. More junk. Why do I have this stuff again? He wondered to himself as he made his way into the bedroom. Do I have to clean all this? Not worth it. I'll bet I can hire someone around here to clean it up.  
Was that calloused of him? They'd probably appreciate the clips. Heck, he felt generous. Maybe a boxing. Frick wanted to change clothes, but he'd decided, perhaps unwisely, to leave his Trade civie's behind. Anything here was ancient and probably a bit dirty. Or very dirty. Frick had never been known for his housecleaning skills.  
With a resigned sigh, Frick went back outside.  
And he didn't like what he saw.  
There was a very pregnant girl in the street. She was lying still, but had obviously been moving recently; she wasn't there when Frick went into his apartment. She was dressed in far too little clothing for the chill of the afternoon, just a ragged dress, and her tangled red hair proved she was not very well kept.  
Rust, he thought. This place is worse than when I left it last.  
Frick strode across the street.  
"Ma'am?" He asked, fingers brushing her shoulder. "Are you awake?" She was not. Frick contemplated for a moment. He could wait and see if someone would come for her. Or he could take her inside his house.  
Frick wasn't fond of waiting.  
He ripped the dusty covers off his bed and laid her gently on the sheets. The one good part of being in such a rough part of Luthadel is no one would really question him about bringing a strange, pregnant woman into his house. Frick chuckled. There was an irony in that. The lawlessness did allow for some more efficient vigilante-ism, he supposed.  
Frick glanced down at the girl's bony face. She was oddly familiar. But Frick had seen more people than he cared to really think about in the Trade. He tossed his helmet into a corner and ran his fingers through his grey-peppered hair.  
"Well, sleep tight. Don't run off without saying thanks when you wake up, alright? I hate not knowing where my charity cases go off to." He closed the door to his room and wandered into the living room to sleep. 

As he passed out on the couch, the girl's face swam before his eyes. But it was a little less bony, a little less haggard, and a lot more cheerful. Candyce? Carlyle? Whatever her name had been. Carsyn, maybe. He sighed into his couch cushion. Obviously, she had done something wrong to end up like this.  
Unfortunately. Frick hadn't realized just how pregnant the poor girl was. In the early hours of the morning, when it was still too damn dark for him to see, he heard screaming.  
Frick was on his feet in an instant. He ran towards the sound, throwing open the door to his bedroom. He flinched.  
Carsyn was splayed out on the bed, skin covered in sweat and face contorted in pain. Her legs were spread wide.  
Her water had broken.  
And she was very much in labor.  
Fric's first instinct was to get the hell out. He ignored it. The second was to call for help. But from who? He didn't know any midwives, the hospital was much too far away for him to carry her. He had a mobile, but all his numbers were Trade related; a medical team intended for broken limbs or fires would not be pleased at a call from a civie with a strange women in labor. So Frick swallowed his nausea and proceeded with the only real option left. He took the girl's hand and started yelling PUSH.  
"COME ON. PUSH, WOMAN!" He yelled. He didn't know what good it actually did, but it was all he knew.  
Wait, he thought in a panic. Am I supposed to catch the baby? Or help pull it out? Or... OW OW DAMN SHE HAS A GRIP.  
Then an actually useful idea occurred. The girl probably didn't have any pewter; she was obviously dirt poor and it's quite possible that she flared it by accident with the first few spasms of pain.  
As a Tineye, Frick would normally only have that in the house. But as a government mercenary, he made sure to carry one of everything just in case. He extracted his hand from hers and fumbled with one of his armor compartments.  
"Drink it. NOW." He opened the vial and dropped it in Carsyn's mouth.  
She obediently swallowed. The pain in her face lessened and her breathing began to even, but her expression was still twisted with fear.  
"Now PUSH. Or... whatever you're supposed to do! Give birth!" He commanded. The pewter was relatively slow burning, but it wouldn't last forever.  
With renewed strength, the girl went back at it. The next few moments were a bit blurred for Frick. He was nearly as scared as Casryn was. Somehow, he ended up with a very bloody, wrinkled thing in his hands.  
He blinked down at it. Weren't babies supposed to be cute? This thing was hideous. Maybe the father was koloss-blooded. While not the most appropriate thoughts, they kept Frick from panicking. He looked, wide-eyed, at Carson. She was still wet and bloody, her breathing slow and eyes dull beneath the red hair plastered across her face.  
"...wait. Wait wait wait!" He said. "Stay awake! You need to... feed it. Be a mom. Tell me where to find a midwife? Something!"  
"Not... not an it," Carsyn panted.  
"Uh... right." Frick glanced down, then back up. "She. It's a girl."  
Carsyn smiled. Frick remembered that smile shockingly well. What had happened to the girl between the time he'd decided to not shoot her and the time he stood over her bloody body anyways?  
"Burn the pewter," he insisted.  
"No more." Carsyn held up a shaking hand. Her fingertips just brushed the little girl's arm.  
Then they fell back on the bed.  
...Rust.


	2. Chapter One

Sayler jumped out the window.   
Or rather, tried. Instead, a hand snatched at her hood and pulled her roughly into the room. Sayler choked, hands clutching at the fabric gathered around her neck. She let out a strangled scream of frustration, smacking into her attacker.   
"No."   
"I still haven't snapped!"   
"Exactly! If you hit the street from this height BOOM. There go your legs."   
Sayler yanked her hood out of Frisk's hands. "Well I have to snap at some point," She said irritably.   
Frick didn't say what they were both thinking.   
What if I never snap? She bit her lip.   
"I dunno why you're all worked up over allomancy anyways," Frick ran his fingers through his hair. It had once been black, but was now it had more grey. Frick still swore it was considered peppered. "It's a blood pain in the butt. You get more prejudice than advantages."   
What Sayler didn't tell him was it was about more than just some better balance and some extra strength. It would be her connection, her only connection, with her mother. Even the Ascendant Warrior had worn an earring given to her by her mother. All that Sayler's mother had when she'd been brought into Frick's apartment was a tattered dress and Sayler herself.   
Sayler pulled up her hood and stuck out her tongue.   
"Very mature," Frick noted.   
"I learned from the best," She replied.   
Frick took her by the shoulders, spinning her so his face was looking into hers. He looked older than his forty-eight years warranted, face haggard from the stress of his previous life. Not that his life since raising Sayler was exactly stress-free, she knew.   
"Wait," He said. Frick looked at her quietly for a moment. "Sayler, I know it's not fair. But believe me when I say I'm damn grateful that you haven't snapped. And I hope from the Survivor to the Ascendant Warrior that you never do. It's just a hell of a lot easier."   
"Not as safe," She argued. "If I could burn Pewter I could protect myself better."   
"That didn't help your mother," Frick said.   
And that's how the argument always ended. Frick would press Sayler's gun into her hands, pat her shoulder, and walk out.   
Then she'd sit in the apartment until he came back.   
That apartment was pretty much Sayler's life. Frick usually worked at night and spent the days teaching her things he considered important. He liked history. He liked physical training. He hated numbers. Sayler's future as an accountant was nonexistent.   
Actually, most of her future seemed nonexistent.   
Frick didn't like thinking about it. Honestly, the whole thing was a rusting mess. When he was suddenly holding a bloody baby with a dead girl lying in his bedroom, he sort of saw his life flash before his eyes.   
How the hell would he find the baby a home? What should he do with the body? Chances were, poor as she was, she wasn't on record. How would he get the baby on record?   
Eventually, he just didn't. He found a poor woman who, for a few clips, would help him with the whole taking care of an infant thing. The body had a cheap burial. Frick didn't care too much for respect for the dead thing. They were dead. Why would they care how they were buried?   
But Sayler being off record was good. And bad. If something happened to Frick, Sayler might be in an unfortunate position of having no connections. On the other hand, she was a possible Allomancer that the government couldn't do much with. The government didn't really know she existed.   
It was a tricky situation that only got worse as Sayler got older. Damn teenage years. Sayler was a hell of a lot better than Frick had been; he distinctly recalled several incidents that were quite possibly on his record somewhere. But now Sayler wanted to go places. Do things. Meet people.   
And even worse, she wanted to snap.   
As though the snapping itself wouldn't be bad enough, she'd then have to hide her allomatic abilities. Over the years, Frick had gathered what had happened to Sayler's mother. Long story short, she hadn't taken his advice.   
Frick leaned against the wall in the hallway of his apartment. He was fond of Sayler, but he didn't mind admitting to himself that this was not how he'd planned retirement. Or lacktherof.   
I didn't even get to do the fun part of having kids, he thought regretfully.   
But.   
It was nice to have someone to come home to when he got back from spying or killing or whatever someone was paying him to do. It was nice to have someone who was usually glad to see him.   
Frick found himself grinning. Nah. He wouldn't give up Sayler for any amount of peace of mind.   
He stepped out of the apartment as the sun was beginning to set. He burned Tin, the streets of Luthadel lighting up like it was midday. He still stubbornly wore his Trade armor, now painted a matte black. It was his way of grudgingly saying that FINE. He'd go back to work if he had to. The people of the backstreets tended to glare at him less. Whether it was tentative acceptance after 16 years of actually living here or fear of his reputation he wasn't sure.   
Or it could be that rumor of him helping Carsyn give birth. Rumors spread quickly. A little too quickly. He didn't exactly keep Sayler locked in a tower, but even if he did word would get around that he had a young girl hidden in his apartment. He vaguely wondered what people thought of that. If he was lucky, they'd assume her to be a bastard of his.   
Poor Sayler, he thought. It's really not too far from the truth.   
Although her current situation was considerably less grim then what she'd be facing if Carsyn hadn't collapsed outside his apartment. Where Carsyn had been... the idea of Sayler growing up there made him almost as nauseous as watching Carsyn give birth.   
Frick took more backstreets than usual. He considered not wearing his armor. He'd look less conspicuous. He could take main roads. But he liked the armor, even if it wasn't much good against a bullet being helped by a Coinshot. Not that'd he'd run into the latter for the past couple years.   
He stepped up to a large building. It was shabby, but obviously well constructed. He knocked on the door, then opened it.   
Frick hated waiting.   
"Frick," Said a deep, feminine voice.   
"Hale." He saluted with two fingers. It was an inside joke between them. Meaning he did it because he thought it was funny and she tolerated it.   
Hale stood up. She was tall. Taller than Frick, which annoyed him. "Did you get it?"   
Frick held up a small hard drive. "Yes ma'am."   
Hale gave a flicker of a smile as she took it. "You do your work well."   
"You wouldn't have hired me if I didn't." He hoped the compliment was as subtle as it sounded. But not so subtle she didn't catch it. Nah, Hale caught everything. Her attention to detail was... attractive.   
She gave him a purse-lipped glare.   
He grinned under the helmet.   
As Hale plugged in the hard drive and began picking through the contents, Frick made himself comfortable on her desk. Either she was too occupied to notice or she'd given up on the idea that Frick's responsible work equated into polite habits. He watched not-so-discreetly over her shoulder as she clicked through files and pages almost faster than he could keep up.   
Hale swore softly.   
Hale never swore.   
Frick raised his eyebrows.   
Hale pulled open a secure webpage and transferred some money into Frick's account. His cue to leave. Frick didn't move. Instead, he just tilted his head.   
Hale looked at him. Frick always had the feeling she could look right through his helmet.   
"Go."   
"...nah."   
"You retrieved the information. Your job is done."   
"Maybe I have a job to also spy on you." Frick looked closer at the computer screen. "Or maybe I'm just really curious," he added. Harmony help him if Hale seriously considered him to be a threat. "This information does sort of have to do with me."   
"It's about allomancers," Hale said irritably. "If anyone already knows about them it's you."   
"That is inaccurate. I know about me. And that's about it. These statistics? Gold, Hale. Gold. I'd even go so far as to say Atium. Statistics about allomancers weren't supposed to exist."   
"And yet you managed to retrieve some," She said dryly. It was her "you're not telling me anything I don't already know" voice.   
"Only because you lead me to 'em," Frick countered. "Point being, I'm curious as to why you're curious. I thought you were just another Merc recruiter."   
"You've been working for me ever since you left the Trade," Hale snapped. "You should have caught on."   
"Details are your... asset. Not mine." He was proud of that particular word choice. Her gaze sharpened. It hadn't gone over her head.   
"This conversation has no point," Hale announced. "Go."   
"It has a point, you just haven't let me get to it."   
"Then get to it."   
"You want to know why the allomancers are disappearing."   
Hale paused. No... she froze. Frick was a little proud of that. It took a lot to throw that woman off balance.   
"Allomancers aren't disappearing." She said.   
"Liar."   
She looked at him irritably. "Do you think I'm such an idiot as to think I could pull off lying to you? The allomancers aren't disappearing. They're leaving."   
"Same difference," Frick said with a frown. "But why are you interested in it?"   
Hale tapped a fingernail against the desk. Not in an annoying way. It made a nice, resounding sort of click.   
"Because," She said slowly. "My son followed them."   
Now that surprised Frick. He didn't know Hale had a son. She didn't seem the motherly type.   
Oh well, he thought. It's not like I'm a prime candidate for a father.   
Hale hesitated a moment, then continued. "There were several allomancers with birth records." She tapped her fingernail against a line of statistics on the computer screen. "But," she said, minimizing the page and pulling up another. "The number of allomancers in Luthadel now? Seven."   
That shocked Frick to the core.   
"Seven?" He said, voice deadly serious for the first time since entering the room. "That's impossible. There's at least dozens!"   
"Off record, perhaps," Hale said. "But other than you, apparently, there are six recorded allomancers left."   
"Do we know what types?"   
"I know what types," She said curtly.   
Frick held up a finger. His middle one, to be specific. "One. Tineye."   
Hale pursed her lips. Damn... that made her look both articulate and kissable. "Yes. That would be one of them."   
Frick sighed, lowering his hand. "Come on, Hale. At least tell me your guess for how many off record."   
Hale paused again. "I know of one for certain." She gave him a pointed look.   
Frick hesitated. How in the rusting name of Harmony did she know about Sayler?   
"It's difficult to keep secrets in our business, Frick."   
"You knew I had a Pewterarm in my house but you didn't know I was a Tineye?"   
"Your Pewterarm doesn't hide her abilities as well as you do."   
Frick paused, then sighed heavily. "Damn girl. I should have known she wouldn't sit nice and tight in the house when I left..." He stood up.   
"Now you go?" Hale asked, surprised.   
"This is more of a side job," Frick said. "My real job that pulled me out of retirement was 'dad'."   
That appeared to startle Hale even more. "You're her fa-"   
Frick put a finger on Hale's lips. "Sh." There was concern in the single sound.   
Hale only nodded.   
She understood.   
Frick knew she would.   
He saluted again, then went back out her door.   
He had a bit of parenting to do.


	3. Chapter Two

"I'm not exactly a Pewterarm YET," Sayler argued.   
Frick gave her a flat glare. "But they knew you COULD become Pewte- that's not the point! The point is that anyone knows about you anyways."   
Sayler pursed her lips, looking at the ground. She wasn't very good at arguing; she could make decent points, it just took her longer than a split-second to fire them back at Frick.   
Frick turned away, pulling off pieces of armor. Sayler glared at his back until her point occurred to her.   
"Obviously they do know about me. Maybe we should use that."   
Frick turned, pointing his shin-guard at her. "No. You're still safer here. Just because Hale knows about you doesn't mean everyone does. She seems to have made finding allomancers her job."   
"Maybe she's the one making them disappear," Sayler said. "Now you've just gone and PROVED I'm a Pewterarm."   
"You're not a Pewterarm."   
It was one of those points where if Sayler said she was, Frick would say she wasn't. If Frick said she was, Sayler would point out she hadn't snapped to prove it. They teetered back and forth on the subject, using it when it suited their needs.   
A normal parent would probably despair over the lack of direct honesty from their child. Frick was glad she could think on her feet and warp the truth when necessary. If Sayler were allowed to share anything true about her life on social media, she probably would have said something like #perksofmercs.   
...or maybe not, she thought.   
Sayler jerked her head up, eyes snapping on the back of Frick's head.   
"Wait! What else happened?"   
Frick tossed the shinguard on the table. "I came home."   
Sayler dropped her face in her hand. "Really?"   
"Really. She wanted me to go anyways."   
"Surely you learned something else from your visit."   
"Hale has a son. Hale keeps tabs on a couple unregistered allomancers."   
"...there are others?"   
"Rust," Frick said. "Surely you could have figured that out."   
Sayler hesitated, considering asking him if she might could just possibly be allowed to go and see other unrecorded allomancers. But she knew the answer.   
"Are you going to investigate further?" She finally asked.   
"...nah." Frick shook his head.   
Sayler gaped at him. That was not the answer she'd expected.   
"What do you mean "nah"?"   
"I mean I'm not investigating further. Hale'll cover it. Not my job."   
"What is your job?"   
"My job," Frick said, sitting down on the couch beside her. "Is one, taking care of you. Two, whatever they pay me to do."   
"Allomancers like me are disappearing. Looking into it sounds like a damn good way to take care of me."   
"Don't curse," Frick said. He propped his boots up on the stool in front of them, putting his hands behind his head as he leaned back, settling into the lumpy couch. "And no. Because by looking into it, they're gonna start looking into me. And that's a sure-fire way for them to find you."   
"Them being the government."   
"Yes."   
"That you once worked for."   
"Yes."   
"That still has your records and probably keeps tabs on you."   
"Yes and no. Believe me, the Trade knows better than to run after a merc that's left." Frick eyed her. "Don't butt into this. It'll be a damn mess if you do. Also, no more running around when I'm not home."   
"What am I supposed to do?" Sayler asked, exasperated.   
Frick got a thoughtful look.   
"You know, I never got that far." He scratched his chin.   
Sayler looked at him indignantly. "You mean you've kept me locked up in this apartment the past sixteen years and you don't even know why?"   
Frick sighed.   
"I dunno. You didn't come with an instruction manual. And I sure as hell wasn't gonna have a Bring My Kid To Work Day. Where were you supposed to go?"   
"...school."   
Frick snorted. "Bunch of government a- butt-kissers. Trust me, homeschooling was the way to go."   
Sayler rubbed her face. "Thank Harmony for internet."   
Frick suddenly stood up and pulled on a jacket. Without a word of explanation, he went into the hall, opened the door, and stepped outside.   
Sayler didn't bother asking after him. He'd come back. And he hated giving explanations. With nothing else to do, she turned on her phone.   
Her first stop was Zidinc, a social media site. No notifications. Then she scrolled through email, checked her profile on Riggers, and even looked into blog she'd forgotten about for the past few months. Finally, she looked at what she'd really been dying to see: Allorem, a forum site dedicated to allomancy speculations and debates.   
Nerdy? Absolutely. But then, that was sort of in right now.   
Sayler scrolled through the forums. There wasn't anything about allomancers disappearing, although there was a months-old thread about the decline of allomancy, archived due to inactivity. She clicked on it.   
The thread was ancient, but it had a heated debate still argued over today. Where Mistborn real, or legends? The Lord Mistborn and Ascendant Warrior were brought up a dozen times, followed by comments saying things like "And I suppose you still believe in Kandra too?" One profile, someone reknowned for being a bit of a conspiracy theorist, kept trying to draw parallels between Kandra and Koloss to prove their existence. A couple self-proclaimed peacemakers blithered about how they should stop arguing then began arguing about why they should stop arguing. A couple people swore worse than Frick when he'd found out Sayler had intentionally attempted to tick off their neighbor, hoping he'd beat her up and get her to snap. Finally, a commenter named MeLaan gave a vague, overly-dramatic comment about idiotic mortals and their impending doom.   
Sayler found the whole thing frustrating. One argument lead to another, with few people staying on the original topic. She turned off the phone.   
Dammit, internet, she grumbled internally.   
Sayler stood up and went to the window.   
Then the room was gone.   
The wall in front of her blew away into the street, the window shattered, and furniture split off into a hundred pieces. Sayler saw orange, and then she saw blackness as her body hit the street below.   
Her first thought after the explosion was, 'Did I snap?!' The second was, 'How the hell am I alive.'   
Rather than the screams that her TV shows and movies predicted following an explosion, there was only the sound of running feet and slamming doors as people decided to get away now.   
Sayler slowly pushed herself up, dust falling off her hair and back in a fog of white. She coughed. People do that after explosions, right? That's a normal thing.   
...my head hurts.   
Sayler grimaced, holding a hand to her forehead. It was far too warm. And... wet? She looked down at her fingers, which were now lightly coated in blood.   
Then it occurred to Sayler that, given her father's job, it was more than likely that the explosion was not an accident and she should probably get away before someone found out there were survivors.   
Ignoring the aches and pains that were blossoming throughout her body, she jogged across the street into an alleyway. No bullets began banging after her.   
Maybe I should try to find whoever set it off, she thought. Frick would kill me. And I'm not sure I could take them... if they could get explosives, what else might they have? No, probably better to just stay put. Unless they try to follo-   
Before Sayler could finish the thought, a cold, saggy feeling hand snatched at her arm and yanked her into the alleyway's wall.


	4. Chapter Three

Or so it felt to Sayler, who hadn't seen that she had actually been standing in front of a door.   
She yanked her arm out of the hand's grip, turning to see it's owner.   
Staring back at Sayler, face impassive, was Tyan. Tyan was wrinkled, skin saggy and spotted. Tyan had been Sayler's nurse when she was an infant, when Frick had been terrified of what he might do to a baby.   
Tyan didn't play games. Tyan didn't waste time. Tyan most certainly didn't waste emotion.   
"Idiot."   
Sayler could feel the warm fuzzies right now.   
"Tyan?" She hissed. "What are yo-"   
Tyan muttered an obscene word, grabbing Sayler's arm again to pull her further into the pitch-black apartment. Sayler stumbled after, elbows and hips knocking into the corners of furniture piled against the wall. Tyan reached up and grabbed Sayler's shoulders after a moment, spun Sayler so her back was to the wall, and pushed down firmly until she was sitting, giant somethings on either side.   
"Stay."   
Tyan waddled off.   
Sayler was frozen for a moment before drawing her knees up to her chest and leaning her head on the something to her left. A chest of drawers, maybe, or some sort of wardrobe. Sayler didn't particularly like Tyan, but Tyan had no reason to harm her. Maybe she had a bit of fondness under her old and calloused heart. Or more likely, Frick had payed Tyan good money to keep Sayler safe in the case of an emergency.   
So she sat.   
Tyan was loud in another, equally dark room for a moment, tossing around pots and pans or something of the sort. No more explosions sounded, and no government officials burst in. As Sayler sat in the darkness, she imagined about five different scenarios, playing them out like she was watching it on her phone.   
Government officials kick the door in, searching for a possible Pewterarm. Two strong men in armor grab Sayler both the arms and drag her out, as she looks the defeated heroine being dragged to her fate. Suddenly, a handsome young Soother comes out, convincing the officials to let her go. As Frick desperately tries to get to her, he sees the young man rescue Sayler. Frick can't help but admire the young man. As Sayler and the Soother make their daring escape-   
Her daydream was interrupted by shuffling sounds on the other side of the room. Had Frick come? Or maybe Tyan was bringing food. Tyan didn't serve big portions, but she was a considerably better cook than Frick, who considered a perfectly acceptable meal to be a half-warmed up frozen something or another that was meant to resemble food.   
Tyan clicked on a flashlight. The beam landed right in Sayler's eyes. She jerked away, forehead smacking the something to her right.   
"Ow!" She hissed, reaching up to press her fingers against her wound.   
Sayler winced around the beam of bright light. Two figures stood behind her. One was curvier... a woman, Sayler guessed. The other seemed more masculine, but was strangely skinny, some bits of him larger than others. As her eyes adjusted, she realized he was more boy than man, not much older than herself.   
"Uh..."   
Tyan's face was still perfectly impassive. "Not too banged up."   
"I suppose," Said the woman. She didn't wear any makeup, but had a sort of natural beauty to the shape and structure of her face. Her hair was pulled back and her lips pursed thoughtfully.   
The boy looked like the living definition of a teenager. He had a half-scowl, like he was too lazy to show all of his current disgust. Not that you could really see it all; his face was hidden behind an absolute curtain of blonde hair.   
"Tyan?" Sayler asked tentatively. She had a decent idea of what had happened. The small bulge of paper in Tyan's apron pocket only served to further the idea.   
Now would be a fantastic time to snap, Sayler thought. In her slightly panicked state, it didn't occur to her that she didn't have pewter even if she had snapped.   
"Hush." Tyan smacked a bony set of knuckles on Sayler's shoulder.   
The woman made a 'get up' motion. Sayler complied, an awkward feat while contained between the two pieces of furniture.   
"Who are you?" Sayler asked. As soon as she said it, she winced a little. It sounded like something anyone would say in this situation. If she'd seen it in a TV show she would have booed the boring script-writer.   
Focus.  
"Don't worry," The woman said. "I'm friends of your fathers."   
"In his business, 'friend' could sort of mean a lot of things," Sayler said. She took a small moment to privately congratulate herself on the quickly formed witticism.   
The woman pursed her lips again. "I'm not going to hurt you." She turned to the boy. "I don't need you anymore. You can go home."   
The boy slumped out of the room. Sayler noted he hadn't looked at her once. What a disgrace to teenagers everywhere.   
"Did... did Frick send you?" She asked, hesitantly.   
"We can't find Frick," The woman said.   
Sayler froze, her stomach suddenly ice-cold and contracted. Calm down, she told herself. Frick's hard to find if he doesn't want to be found.   
Of course, if he didn't want these people to find him he probably wouldn't want them finding her. Dammit, no matter where she looked in this situation it sucked.   
"Who are you?" Sayler demanded again. She looked from Tyan to the woman, madly running through a list of Frick's friends, "friends", and friends.   
Rust, Frick, she thought. Why couldn't you have been a little less secretive?   
The woman motioned for Sayler to come with her. "I said we're not going to hurt you," She said.   
"Yeah, but that doesn't tell me who you a-"   
"We don't have time!" There irritation in her voice: cover for a sliver of panic.   
Sayler decided she would follow. Tyan looked ancient, but she had been wrestling down kids from age three to age eighteen all her life. Sayler, a tall toothpick of a girl, wouldn't be a problem at all. Especially with this woman to help.   
"What should I call yo-"   
"Quiet." The woman put a sharp-looking fingernail up to her lips. "They will hear us."   
Sayler fell silent.   
She walked behind the woman, wondering on a scale of 1-10 how furious Frick would be with her right now. She settled at a four. Sayler was supposed to trust Tyan in the case of an emergency, right? And the fact that Frick hadn't come back yet was... definitely an emergency.   
Why didn't we come up with a safe word in case of something like this? She thought irritably. Frick could teach her every way to pick a lock but forget simple things like that. Useful things like that. Parenting was not his skill.   
They stepped out into the street, bright with orange light in the setting sun. Sayler's eyes adjusted from the dim of Tyan's house.   
The woman was dressed in sleeker armor than Frick usually wore. Less effective, but less bulky. She wore a black jacket over the slim armor, and her hair was twisted up in a tight bun. She threw a booted leg over the seat of her motorcycle, pulling on a helmet. From a distance, she looked like a woman in a skintight suit and leather jacket, trying to look both tough and sexy on a too-powerful motorcycle. Sayler had the feeling that while the look was meant to be make the woman look like she was trying too hard, it was actually true.   
Sayler slid onto the bike behind her, arms sliding around the woman's waist. The armor dug into her bony elbows and ribs. Frick and Sayler ate well, but Sayler couldn't for the life of her gain any sort of curves or softness. Useful for fitting in armor. Not so much for picking up boys.   
If, you know, Sayler was around boys.   
The woman took off down the alley far faster than Sayler expected or was comfortable with.   
I don't even have a helmet, she thought, pressing her face against the back of the woman's armor, leather sticking to her cheek. The motorcycle swerved around a corner. Sayler's knee just barely avoided brushing against the wall. At speeds like this, she doubted her pants would be that much protection against the rough stucco.   
After a few more tight turns proved the woman's capabilities, Sayler stopped fearing for her life (or at least her limbs) and began to enjoy the adrenaline rushes. She was a bit disappointed when the motorcycle slowed to a stop in front of a large building.   
The woman dismounted, Sayler quickly following suit, and unlocked the door.   
"Frick?" The woman called.   
There was the sound of something shattering. The woman hastened her footsteps. Sayler bounced from foot to foot behind her, willing her to go even faster.   
Frick sat in a plush living room, having dropped an ashtray on one of the few spots of hardwood floor not covered up by exotic looking rugs. His face was perfectly innocent.   
"Hale. Sayler!"   
"FRICK."   
Sayler partially wanted to tackle him in a hug. She also wanted to slap him, however, for sending a strange woman after her instead of coming himself.   
"Why the hell-" She began, striding across the room towards him.   
"Ah ah ah." Frick raised a finger, tip just barely brushing her bottom lip. Then he collapsed backwards onto a sofa. "Not now."   
Sayler's eyes finally caught the holes, slightly darker than the armor they penetrated.   
"You were shot?!"   
"Coinshot. A bloody coinshot," Frick grumbled.   
Sayler ran her fingers through her hair. Her first instinct was to rip off his obviously useless armor and tend to the wounds. But Sayler would end up doing more harm than good; her attempts at Frick's First Aid Course were dismal. Her second instinct was the barrage him with questions about who the hell tried to blow her up, who the hell shot him, and why the hell did they do it.   
Frick wouldn't appreciate her language, however.   
So Sayler sat on the carpet, looking up at him.   
"Geeze, it's like looking at a fully-coiled spring. You're about to smack me, aren't you?" Frick asked.   
Hunh. That would also be a good option, Sayler thought.   
The woman walked over and began dissembling Frick's armor, starting with the breast-plate that had failed so miserably.   
"Thanks, Hale." Frick winced as the breastplate came away, the blood causing a strange suction noise. Hale tossed it onto the pale rug, smearing it red. After Frick's upper body was mostly exposed, she carefully peeled off the shirt.   
Sayler watched in a sort of stubborn horror. She refused to be one of those girls that squirmed at the sight of anything gruesome. Blood didn't bother her at all. (If it had, how in the world would she survive just being herself every month?) But wounds... wounds were wrong. Twisted skin and exposed bones and ripped muscles all send shivers up and down her tailbone. Not that she would admit it in a million years.   
"Sayler?" The woman, Hale, turned, eyes locking on Sayler's. "I need you to go get Draver. He's the boy that you met when I-"   
Sayler didn't hear the rest; she was already out of the room.   
She walked quickly through the building. It was all filled with weird and exotic designs, like someone who had spent all their time living abroad. It didn't seem to fit Hale at all. Sayler would have guessed her home to be sleek, streamlined design with neat areas to help her work more efficiently. Not a plush, dark house cluttered with wood, carpet, and dim lamps.   
"Draver?" She called out tentatively, circling in the main room of the house. She bit her lip, then walked up the staircase. "Draver?" She said, a bit more loudly.   
The teenager shuffled into the hallway, shoulders slumped and face hidden behind his hair. He was vaguely turned in her direction, so Sayler took that as encouragement to go on.   
"Hale wants you. Miss Hale? Mrs. Hale? I'm not sure, Frick only ever called her Hale. Anyways, um, Frick's been shot. She wants you for..." She trailed off as Draver brushed past her without a word, going down the stairs sounding like an elephant. "...okay." Sayler followed him, feeling a bit troubled.   
This is Frick's fault, she grumbled internally. If he'd let me socialize more...   
She came downstairs to find Draver mumbling to Hale. Her lip-purse increased the longer the boy spoke.   
That was when Sayler realized that Frick may actually be hurt.   
Somehow it had never occurred to her. Frick never really got hurt, and when he did brushed it off. The idea that he could be seriously injured, or even die, was completely out of her realm of thought until now.   
She gripped the door-frame, then spun slowly back into the main room.   
As much as Sayler couldn't picture Frick being badly hut, it was even harder to picture him dead. Still, silent, and cold.   
That seemed impossible.   
That made the fact that it wasn't only impossible, but possibly probable, cut deeper into her mind.


End file.
